okay
by messyfeathers
Summary: Cecil can't recall ever feeling this way, not about anyone, not until now (and maybe, just maybe that's okay..) [Dialogue-light, fluffy look into Cecil/Carlos developing relationship]
1. kiss

_this is going to be a series of four short vignettes exploring Cecil's discovery of his own demisexuality.  
Welcome to Night Vale is property of Commonplace Books._

* * *

"Kiss me."

From the confusion that dances across Carlos' face, it's clear he can't tell if he heard the request properly. Granted, it had been asked hardly above a whisper, and they're in the back row of a college auditorium listening to a symposium on the different breeds of desert wolves - not exactly the most romantic setting.

"Okay," Carlos whispers back, gingerly removing the frames of his glasses and tucking them into the pocket of his lab coat before obliging.

It's only their second kiss, four dates in, and Carlos sheepishly pulls away after lingering a moment longer than anticipated. There's the briefest flicker where Cecil almost asks for another, but instead his lips press into a soft smile.

He tucks back against his boyfriend's chest, which earns him an arm around his shoulders and a gentle kiss to the crown of his head.

For now it's perfect.


	2. fact

It's a fact by this point.

Cecil is asexual.

It's been a fact as long as he can remember. He shares it with Carlos over a drink at Rico's that he claims is his first of the evening, intentionally not counting the shot he downed for courage five minutes prior to leaving home.

It takes a few days to process, but there are now two facts.

Cecil is asexual.  
Carlos is okay with it.

They talk about it: a lot at first, then less.

The first time Cecil stays over at the lab is accidental. A long documentary on telepathic hypnosis puts them both soundly asleep on the scientist's sofa.

The second time Cecil stays over is out of necessity as his apartment undergoes emergency spider-lice fumigation somewhere after midnight. He crashes on the poofy armchair in the corner, and Carlos covers him in a well-loved blanket patterned with the periodic table of the elements.

The third time, Cecil has no excuse. He simply arrives at the laboratory door a bit flushed - partly from the spontaneous jog up the stairwell, partly from shyness as he demurely asks if he can stay the night.

"Okay," Carlos replies, barely contained enthusiasm bubbling over in a bright flash of perfect teeth.

Cecil sleeps in Carlos' bed this time. All they do is sleep and dream a municipally-mandated fantasy, and in the morning share a quiet kiss and exchange nervous overlapping apologies for morning breath.

Cecil decides he likes the way Carlos' hair looks all mussed by a pillow, and Carlos decides morning breath is a very small price to pay for a glimpse of Cecil's sleepy smile, and they both decide to make sharing a bed into a regular event.


	3. stay

Some mornings Cecil wakes to an empty bed. He's learned to close his eyes and wait patiently for the freshly-washed arms that always wind back around his waist minutes later. He can always tell by the damp kiss just barely pressed to the thin cotton shrouding his shoulder that whatever dream was blissful enough to wake the scientist before the alarm was undoubtedly about him.

Cecil isn't sure how he feels about that.

He can't say he's entirely repulsed by the idea of what goes on behind the bathroom door on mornings like these. Fingers card through soggy curls as their owner lightly dozes away the remainder of moments til the alarm. Cecil studies his face and ponders how to articulate the notion of Carlos staying in bed next time - just so Cecil could maybe see how it feels to simply observe.

Carlos would never dream of asking for anything like that. Carlos never asks Cecil for things beyond gentle kisses and shy requests to run his fingers through Cecil's unbraided hair. Carlos is content to take care of himself behind a closed door and crawl back into bed soap-scented and drowsy for fifteen more minutes of cuddling.

Cecil brushes his lips gently across flittering eyelids and whispers a single word for now.

"Stay."

The response is a sleepy puff of breath against his neck.

"Okay."


	4. okay

_notes: mild cw for referenced scars, Carlos' from the bowling alley, Cecil's from the boy scouts/interning at nvcr_

* * *

"It's hot," Carlos comments as he gingerly folds Cecil's fluffy comforter as far to the foot of the bed as possible.

"They still haven't fixed my A/C," Cecil apologizes, climbing into the bed beside him. They lie side-by-side staring at the starlight washing across the fissured shapes of Cecil's ceiling.

"Can I...?" Carlos asks, a finger hooking in the collar of his faded Jurassic Park t-shirt. His lower lip snags on a tooth in a familiar anxious tick. Cecil nods and tries not to steal too obvious a glance at exposed skin. It isn't the first time he's seen his boyfriend shirtless, but he recognizes the way Carlos shies instinctively from view, arms automatically crossing to cover the thick dark hair and pudgy curves and patchy scars. Cecil understands the feeling all-too-well, and self-consciously tugs his own shirt down a little further toward the waistband of his flannel pants. "Goodnight," Carlos murmurs, fumbling for the light and leaning across the narrow bed for a kiss.

He's asleep quickly, snoring in that way Cecil teases him for, but also never hopes to fall asleep without hearing again. Absently Cecil's fingers untwine themselves from the sleeping scientist's grasp to trace lazy patterns against Carlos' stomach.

It's odd, Cecil thinks, to assume things are one way only to have them shift and change unexpectedly from beneath you like an unperceived earthquake. Part of him feels like this is betrayal, somehow refuting a label he's adhered to since adolescence. Frequently he reminds himself that he is free to shift and change like the wind, that there are other labels he's hesitantly typed into search engines and later cleared from Carlos' internet history because he wasn't ready to share all this just yet. He lets out a sigh against the nape of his boyfriend's neck.

Carlos is right - it's hot tonight.

Cecil pushes himself to an elbow and slips off his shirt with slightly trembling fingers. He watches the soft cotton pool in a shapeless form on the floor before turning back to the sleeping man next to him. Arms wrap cautiously around the scientist once more. It's a different sensation altogether - skin on skin, scars on scars, self-conscious squishes all squashed together. Cecil might like it, he muses as he tugs the thin sheet up over them both.

In the morning Carlos finds some way to twist this new development into his own fault and apologizes for accidentally pressuring, but Cecil kisses him with a smile growing bright as the sunrise as he embraces this new breed of butterflies that have begun to flutter oh-so-slowly in his stomach for some time now.

They talk a lot at first, and then they are quiet, and Carlos brushes his fingertips through Cecil's hair - this time allowing them to trace a few of the rough scars that lie against his ribcage beneath the curtain of ebony waves.

And Cecil feels something stir at the touch.  
And it's not much, but maybe it's a start.  
And maybe there doesn't ever necessarily have to be a finish to whatever this is.

And maybe this - all of this - is okay.

* * *

 _notes: based so very heavily on my own discovery of demisexuality, from back before I realized asexuality is more of a spectrum than a black and white static label._

 _this has all been in my head for a while now and I'm really glad I wrote it. if you would like to share cute ace headcanons with me in exchange for ficlets and incoherent cooing, I can be found at ducktelepathy on tumblr~_


End file.
